


The Ninth Day After Christmas

by bookwyrmling



Series: Check Please! 12 Days of Christmas 2016 [5]
Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bar/Pub, Check Please 12 Days of Christmas, Day 5: 12 Days of Christmas, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-27
Updated: 2016-12-27
Packaged: 2018-09-12 15:42:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9079129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookwyrmling/pseuds/bookwyrmling
Summary: Based on the parody song "The Twelve Days After Christmas"Kent has had a rough holiday season, to say the list.  But if it leads him to The Well, then maybe he can take one good gift from it all.





	

Kent Parson knocks back another shot and winces at the taste. Tequila has never been his favorite poison, but it always manages to get him black out drunk the fastest without turning him weepy and that sounds like something he kind of needs right now.

Things had gotten rough between him and his boyfriend leading up to the holidays and they had only gotten worse after. The fight on the 26th had been enough to have the neighbors call the cops for a domestic disturbance. By the time they had arrived, Matt had stormed off and Kent had taken their digital picture frame Matt had gotten him for their six month anniversary, thrown it in the trash can with some paper and lit it all on fire.

After a severe scolding from the police for starting the fire—apparently batteries could explode and spread it even if he had tried to contain it in the metal bin—Kent had spent the rest of the night staring at his phone, waiting for Matt to come home or call. He’d fallen asleep at some point and woken up to his alarm, a kinked neck, an empty home, no messages and a horrible mood the next morning. The ugly Christmas sweaters they’d worn to Matt’s family’s party on the 18th were shreds of yarn on the floor by the time he’d left for skate.

They had tried to make nice over New Year’s, showing up together for Jeff’s party and even kissing at midnight, but then Kent had started things up again and neither were sober enough to realize this was a conversation better had away from friends and alcohol.

By the time Kent had made it home the next afternoon after recovering from his hangover, Matt’s stuff was gone, including his stocking, personal ornaments and one of the piles of yarn. The rest of the Christmas decorations had not lasted the day and Kent took great pleasure from the site of the Christmas tree, wreath and a box of themed decor at the curb ready for pick-up the next day. He had taken a picture and sent it to Matt.

 _you decorate as well as you fuck_ , he’d sent along with the image, _I always had to finish things with my own hand after you made a mess_. And then he’d deleted Matt’s number from his contacts as well as their text history and his call history and then gotten roaringly drunk.

It has been two days since—the third day of the new year—and Kent is still feeling off-kilter enough that he has turned off his phone to ignore the concerns of friends and family whom had seen his holiday spiral and duck into a pub for a drink or three. It is when he orders his fourth that the bartender sets a glass of water and a menu in front of him instead and says, “Our motto may be Drink Deeply, but if you don’t have a glass of water and something to eat, I’m going to have to cut you off soon.”

“I’m not drunk,” Kent grouses as he finally looks up from the bar to see what sort of southern hick has decided to refuse him service, “Definitely nowhere near that drunk.”

The bartender is blonde and short and staring at him with pursed lips and raised eyebrows and Kent can feel the hairs at the back of his neck prickle at the judgment being passed. He almost wants this guy to start something and give him a reason to fight. Instead, the bartender—his name tag reads Eric—simply shakes his head and sighs before pushing the glass of water further across the counter towards Kent.

“No,” he admits, “but you’ve also had three shots of Cuervo since walking in twenty minutes ago. Drink that water and I’ll give you your fourth.” And then he turns to another customer and smiles brightly as he mixes a Cuba Libre and pours another beer.

Kent glares and pulls his wallet out of his back pocket, preparing to just drop a 20 and leave until he realizes he does not really have anywhere else to go other than home or another bar and, while another bar may give him greater access to alcohol, he kind of likes the vibes here. It is relaxed and warm and open. Kent sets his wallet on the counter on top of his phone and palms at the glass of water, damp with condensation.

“Bitty!” call out two men as they walked inside and right up to the bar to high-five Eric. Kent Parson takes a drink.

“Ransom, Holster, how are you?” Eric greets with an even larger smile than before and Kent instantly places them as obvious regulars as they pop onto stools next to each other and not too far from Kent to ask, “C’mon, Bits, just for us.”

“I am not making you tub juice,” Eric cries as he pulls out two pint glasses and holds them up, “You know that stuff’s Shitty’s deal, not mine. How about your usual?”

“Yeah, yeah,” the white man in glasses grumbles as they both acquiesce.

“Cheesesticks, too, bro,” the black man with a white cap adds and Eric nods at them before turning to the taps.

Kent focuses on finishing his water, figuring he can ask for that fourth shot the next chance he has, but it is sitting in front of him already the moment he sets the empty glass down. Kent blinks at it before glancing at Eric who grins and winks at him. “You want a fifth one, though,” he adds with a nod at the shot glass, “I’m gonna need to see some food in you.”

Kent pauses, shot dangling between two fingers as he stares at Bitty for a few seconds, before laughing. He sets the shot down and laughs into his arms on the bar before turning his head to the side to peek back in Eric’s direction, appreciating the way his suddenly shy smile sends a pink dusting over his nose and cheeks.

“If I order a burger, can I get some of that tub juice?” Kent asks next, not even attempting to hide his smirk, “Sounds like the stuff for making memories.”

Eric’s eyes fly open wide, making them look even larger, and it’s his turn to laugh this time. “You want to give tub juice a try, you’re welcome to come Thursday through Sunday nights when Shitty’s on shift. It’s his recipe and I wouldn’t touch that stuff with a ten foot pole. Besides, you certainly wouldn’t be the one remembering those memories you made the morning after.”

“Fine,” Kent grins as he lifts his head back up off his arms and slides the menu back over in Eric’s direction, “Bartender’s choice. Surprise me.”

It takes several seconds of Eric hesitantly running his fingers over the laminated menu before his jaw seems to set and his grip on the menu tightens. “Any allergies, sensitivities or dietary restrictions I should be aware of?”

“Nope.”

Eric smiles at him then and waves the menu in his direction before tossing it under the bar. “One order coming up, then,” he says and Kent grins through the heady feeling of the tequila beginning to hit. He is not quite sure if Eric’s just being extra cautious or if he can somehow tell when he refills Kent’s water before moving to close another customer’s check.

Traffic flow increases at the bar for a bit and Kent drifts from watching Bitty to eyeing the room, itself. The Well cannot quite be called a dive, but it is definitely more of a local watering hole than anything that would draw a travelling crowd. SportsCenter and ESPN are up on the televisions and there is a pool table in use in the back. Kent can’t hear the sports, but he can just barely hear the crack of the balls smacking each other and the rattle of one finding a pocket over the top 40s playing in the background. There are white Christmas lights up behind the bar that seem more a permanent fixture than part of the colorful holiday decor and Kent watches a small Asian woman drop a batch of mozzarella cheesesticks off at the two regulars who had sat near him before sliding a plate of tacos in front of him.

“Tequila, Taco Tuesday...figured we’d go for a theme,” Bitty winks at him in between customers and Kent snorts, because he hasn’t been to a Taco Tuesday in years, but takes a bite of the street taco all the same and groans his appreciation at the taste, suddenly realizing he hasn’t eaten for nearly eight hours and, okay, maybe this bartender has the right idea.

He holds up two of his fingers while shoveling another taco into his mouth. Bitty laughs.

“Two tacos or two plates, hon?”

Kent picks up the third and final taco on his plate while in the midst of chewing the second one and uses his free hand to wave over the entire plate.

“Gotcha,” Bitty grins before turning around to tap in the new order on his server screen.

Two plates of tacos later, Kent is just on the drunk side of tipsy but has yet to ask for that fifth drink. Eric has, however, refilled his water once. The glass is already nearing empty once again and Kent knows the alcohol will be kicking in soon enough, so he starts to pace himself on the water to stave off testing the establishment’s bathrooms.

He has been quiet, enjoying the chance to people watch now that he finds himself a bit more outside of his own head. There is a couple at a booth decked out in Sharks gear, cheering on the game—a surprising presence since most bars tended to be pretty heavy-handed with the football what with the season wrapping up and post-season kicking off. A group of girls have shoved about three tables together and are tackling what has to be one of the largest pile of nachos Kent has seen in his life and the two guys who had sat at the bar earlier are now chatting up a few of them. There are a whole lot of smiles on a whole lot of faces and it’s nice to see even if he can’t help but remember how unhappy he currently has every right to be.

“Got a little quiet over here.”

Kent jumps a bit before turning back to the bar to find Eric smiling at him. His face instantly feels red-hot and his gaze drifts to catch the score on the Heat and Suns game playing on one of the other screens.

“Can I get you anything else?” Eric asks as he stacks and clears the empty plates, sticking them in a bin behind the bar for pick-up later.

“Mmm, another water,” Kent decides as he browses the taps, “and what’s your IPA?”

“Boneyard,” Eric replies as he refills Kent’s water glass, “West coast style, so plenty of hops.”

“Sounds perfect,” Kent grins and knocks on the bartop, “I’ll be right back. Where’s your john?”

“Back and to the right,” Eric nods towards the pool table, “Your beer’ll be waiting for you when you get back.”

Kent looks back in that direction and nods before turning back to Eric. “I’ll close my check out with that, too,” he adds, slipping his wallet and phone into his pocket for safe-keeping.

When he returns, Eric sets the beer and check folder in front of him. Kent pulls his wallet back out and immediately drops his card in the folder, but when Eric moves to grab it, Kent holds it down.

I don’t mean to sound like a creep,” Kent winces, “but...I’ve been going through a really shit time since Christmas and you really helped.”

Eric frowns, his eyebrows pulling lines of confusion across his forehead. “I didn’t even do anything.”

Kent huffs and shakes his head. “You dragged me out of my head,” he says, “And I needed that.” He lifts his hand off of the folder before he asks, “Do you work other nights?” so Eric can turn away if he overstepped any professional boundaries, “I’m not trying to be a creep, I promise.”

Eric chews on his bottom lip, his fingers tapping out a staccato to match the tempo of Rihanna pumping through the speakers before he seems to come to a decision and nods. “Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday nights are mine,” he says with a small smile beginning to slip back into place. He picks up the check folder and taps it against the corner of the bar, “And I second for Shitty on Fridays and Saturdays during the peak hours.”

Kent nods and covers his lower face with his hand at the rush of warmth and giddiness at the information.

“That mean I should expect to see you around a bit more, Mr. Parson?” Eric asks with a glint of humor in his eyes before he turns to run Kent’s card through the system.

Kent lets out a shaky breath and signs off on the receipt before dropping a twenty note as his tip. “If you don’t mind, Eric.”

“I’m certainly not one to be turning away good business...or good tips,” Eric replies, his eyebrows jumping up into his hairline as he collects the tip and signed copy of the receipt. Kent nods his head at that response and turns to leave when he feels a hand reach out and grab his forearm. “Oh, and, Mr. Parson?” Eric asks with a sly grin in place, “My regulars call me Bitty.”

“You can call me Kent,” Kent says, his cheeks beginning to hurt. When he finally steps outside, he raises his hands up to rub at them, but the smile remains. Maybe he should consider this a belated Christmas gift from his ex. He can tell already meeting Eric—Bitty—was going to make the mess his holidays were actually worth it.

**Author's Note:**

> This one was, like, almost done and I had to finish it, even if the actual time frame for the fic collection is over.


End file.
